![]() ![]() No one was going to let me exhume corpses to see if they were playing my tune, so it was back to old-fashioned legwork, starting in Soho, the heart of the scene. Cyrus Wilkinson, part-time jazz saxophonist and full-time accountant, had apparently dropped dead of a heart attack just after finishing a gig in a Soho jazz club. Something violently supernatural had happened to the victim, strong enough to leave its imprint like a wax cylinder recording. ![]() And it's why, when Dr Walid called me to the morgue to listen to a corpse, I recognised the tune it was playing. ![]() I was my dad's vinyl-wallah: I changed his records while he lounged around drinking tea, and that's how I know my Argo from my Tempo. ![]()
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